Rails and Tarmac
by Dark Austral
Summary: The story of two of Alistair's students. Cross-over with AMC's Hell on Wheels.


_Disclaimer_: Don't own SPN or Hell on Wheels

_A/N_: I was watching Hell on Wheels and the actor who plays Alistair, plays Thor Gundersen aka The Swede and there was a scene where he slashed at a guy's face with a fork almost taking out his eye and I couldn't help but think of Alistair. So this fic was born. Also, first time ever doing a cross-over fic, didn't think it would be quite the challenge.

**Rails and Tarmac**

Thor Gundersen: bookkeeper, immigrant to the fabled prosperous lands of America from his cold Norwegian home, quartermaster of the Union Army and now prisoner of war. He likes his numbers, rather be amongst the papers and pens than deal with people. He likes control, order. Loves when the math adds up correctly and there is no miscalculation or unknown figure disrupting his organized flow of if and then, yes and no, right and wrong.

Gurgling brings him out of his mind, sunken eyes peering out from a skull-like face slide downwards towards the thing that he thought was a fellow friend. Splintered pieces of wood jut out of the throat, blood darkening the dirt and ragged clothes. There's a scattering of footsteps in the darkness, deep in the bellows of the makeshift rows of tents.

They've heard. They'll come and see. And they'll kill him. Raid like locust upon him, tear him apart because that is all that is here in Andersonville, chaotic survival. He wants the numbers back. The control.

Rising upon on boney knees, bare feet pushing up the meager remains of what was once his 200 pound body, Thor Gundersen staggers out into the night, blood dripping down in his wake. His right hand reaches up and cradles the left, pressing down to keep what life is left in him inside.

Weaving in and out of the tents, between the sounds of pained moans, sickening coughs and snarling curses, he tries to forget the feeling of teeth and fingers sinking into his flesh.

* * *

><p>Dean Winchester: brother, born and breed on the vast roads of America far from the crisp fields of Kansas, hunter trained since he was a child and now a damned soul in Hell. He likes being out on the road, blaring out rock music than in some cubicle job in a tall colorless building. He likes freedom, free will. Loves when there's family and friends at his side, a little brother with the right amount of teasing and conflict that makes life full-filling.<p>

Screaming rings in his ears drawing dazed eyes to lock onto the endless web of chains and hooks. Metal and wood sear and catch onto his mangled body as each tissue and tendon ache in agonizing pain. Cackling, like hyeneas the demons circle around, their hooves thundering in the air.

They've heard. They're drooling with anticipation. They've come to watch him break. Swarm over his mangled soul day in and day out, wanting to snag their own precious piece of Winchester down here in the Pit of eternal horror. He wants the freedom back, his brother.

Twisting his wrist slightly neck craning back, Dean peers up at the shackles. A second later, he throws up, coughing through bile and blood as his body convulses in shock. He's close now, he can feel it. Head slamming hard into the rack, his exposed spine arches as something dark knits his soul back together.

The pitter patter of blood dripping, the screams of the damned, the laughing insanity of demons, Dean Winchester braces himself for the feeling of teeth and knives sinking into his flesh once more.

* * *

><p>The thin wooden fence bends outwards, casting long shadows like yearning fingers just shy of reaching freedom before creaking back into its rigid form. The prison is a massive beast, wheezing air in and out of its fragile ribs that lock in its rotting contents. Collapsing into the muddy hole behind one of the vacant tents in the farthest corner of the prison, Gunderson casts one more glance around his surroundings. His great-grandmother told him nightmarish tales of when the plague came to their small village. Of the ways when things went bump in the dark, of creatures with fangs and men with black eyes.<p>

Sniffling, he rests his gaze upon the ragged bite mark. Purple bruises in the shape of fingers make a sad parody of a halo around the bloody meat hole. The wind skips between the fence. He swears he hears the dead man's words.

No, he hisses in his native tongue. No. He won't give up, won't lose control again. He has to control people, just like numbers. That's what they all are anyways, just numbers, the clock ticking way to zero, the next number in the endless line of a body count. Digging fingers into his aching bite wound, Thor Gunderson etches out old symbols, letting the words fall from his parched throat.

There is nothing when all is said and done except for dead air. Spitting out a curse, he shifts his boney frame away from the fence. This was stupid; he should have known these old superstitious ways were pointless, just stories to frighten the children. He'd have to find another way to get strong, to get control, to get—

A pair of cracked feet stops before him. Glancing upwards, he takes in the ashen face of a dead prisoner smirking down at him. "Haven't heard that type of call in a long while, normaly it's the usual cross-road," squatting down the corpse grins even longer, "So Thor Gunderson, you want to make a deal?"

Swallowing, Gunderson finds he can't take his eyes off this dead creature. "Y-yes."

"Not a problem, kiddo. But here's the thing, I'm a little bored downstairs, could do for a stretch of the legs upstairs. So here's the thing, I ride shotgun in your suit." Gunderson parts his mouth. No, he does not want this. He wants control, not surrender, not- The demon raises his hand, "But I'll teach you a few tricks to gain and keep your control."

The prisoner's mouth shuts tight and with a quick nod, he whispers "Deal."

The demons smirks, he always loved dealing with desperate men. Eyes flashing white, he gathers himself for a quick vacancy. "The name's Alistair by the way."

And as the demon settles between his bones and soul, Thor Gunderson finds that he's happy. He's in control and people, people are just numbers. He's finally able to make those numbers add up. Even if it means damning his soul.

* * *

><p>Dean can't even find it in himself to snipe back. He vaguely remembers a time where he'd curse and banter and taunt every time this part of the day came about. Then there was a time where he dully recalls cringing and crying just at the sound of the demon's voice. Now, now there's a traitorous flutter of relief, of some twisted happiness when he sees those white eyes and hears that accent.<p>

"Leave him be boys, you've had your fun for today. He's mine now."

Dean drifts off used to Alistair having his fun, of him asking the same question over and over again. Get off the rack boy? Do a little torture yourself? He says no in every way possible. 29 plus years and it's become routine, just like how a husband says "Honey I'm home" and the wife gives him a peck on the cheek.

Except this time, as Alistair finishes wiping clean his razor clean on the cartilage of his knee-cap, the white-eyed demon steps away. Dean blinks, trying to clear away the red film. "Wh-"

"See you tomorrow, Dean." And with that Alistair vanishes leaving a speechless Dean behind.

Days turn into weeks into months and every time it's the same. Alistair does his segment of torture then leaves. He no longer asks, no longer dangles that fruit of choice, of free-will. The one thing Dean was able to control in this Hell is gone. He has nothing anymore, no means to hurt the demon, his only weapon down here, the one consistent thing. And even that's slipping. Dean can feel it. Feel how Alistair is no longer grinning down at him, ignoring every jibe Dean shoots at him. Even his usual vigor in breaking his body apart is disappearing.

Till one day, shaking with desperation, Dean yells out to Alistair's retreating back. "Sign me up! Sign me up!"

Alistair pauses, turning just slightly enough for a white-eye to swivel back and lock on him. Trembling, Dean licks his lips. "Please. I'll do it. I'll do it!" The demon blinks once then turns his head.

A step and Dean screams out "Yes! God damnit yes!"

A blast of searing sulfuric air enough to burn hair if he had any left and Alastair's before him, cupping his face with that intense grip that he's missed. A part in him breaks in grief. He hates himself for it, hates that he's become dependent on Alistair, on that one little question that was taken away from him. How he just wants it back.

"Yes," he whispers out, bile rising in his throat.

"Why?" whispers back Alistair as if it's just the two of them locked in some intimate moment.

And Dean, he can't say why because there's a million reasons and then there's none. He's tired of the torture, wants an end to it all, wants to dish out the pain himself, wants freedom to move, have a choice once more in what tool to use. He wants some tiny sliver of control back.

Without words spoken, Alistair seems to read it in his green eyes because with one snap the chains and hooks disappear and Dean finds himself standing before a terrified woman. Something cold slides into his palm startling Dean out of his trance. He's off the rack. He's actually standing and there are no hooks or chains or pain. He's back to being human, a being with ten fingers and ten toes with a nose and eyes and ears and teeth that clink together as they chatter.

Glancing down, he takes in the razor that is held precariously in his palm. Freedom was always a balancing act. He knows his dad would hate him for this, that Mom would cry and Sam would be pleading with those big puppy-dog eyes of his. But Dean wants the pain to end, wants his freedom back. He was always adaptable, knew how to make the best out of a situation and his soul was already damned. He just wants the pain to end.

* * *

><p>Gunderson learns every ounce of knowledge Alistair teaches him, soaks up everything like the starved skeleton he is. The man solidifies his stature as the Swede, invoking fear and prospering off the lesser humans when they settle down with a traveling city called Hell on Wheels. Humming with pleasure, Alistair doesn't mind sitting in the passenger seat of this slim man whose soul blackens to a shade similiar to the smoke plums of the train. And Gunderson, the human could care less.<p>

Everything is perfect. Everything is in his control. Everything is adding up till a dark-eyed man named Bohannon comes storming in, a god of Chaos...a true incarnate of Loki himself.

It doesn't take long.

The deal shatters before Thor knows what happened. Alistair is done with the game, hates how the human can't win against this revenge-driven man. That all his hard work was for nothing when the time came. So Alistair leaves Gunderson, hears the man's soul cry out in desperation for him as Bohannon whips the once tall and powerful man down onto his hands and knees.

What a waste of potential.

* * *

><p>Dean is fast, a quick study and adaptable in every test Alistair throws at him. He's a chameleon, except instead of his skin changing colors to mask what he truly is, with every break in skin, each shedding of a layer Dean's true colors shine briefly like a supernova before imploding into that thick demonic pitch. Alistair finds himself whistling that damn classic rock song Dean hums as he whittles away on another soul<p>

Everything has finally fallen into place. Everything is going the way it was meant to be. The first seal has been broken and Alistair has found his protege. And Dean, he could care less. Everything is in his control now, he finally can hash out his anger and pain, can make someone else bleed. It's perfect till a storm roars in, fiery beings streaking across the hooks and chains incarnating everything they touch.

The deal to save Sam's soul becomes void when Hells' gates are breached. Alistair watches passively, letting Dean cry out in rage at him as and angel named Castiel raises the Righteous Man out of Perdition.

What a shame.

* * *

><p>Gunderson mumbles stories of old, cries out in his native tongue, curses that it's too dirty here in Hell to barren walls. He prays to a deaf God about what a fool he was to make a deal with a demon. His skeleton soul flickers back and forth, tar and feathers oozing down his rack of railroad tracks, iron spikes driven through his hands and feet.<p>

"You talk funny," a young voice shoots through the damp air.

Gunderson peers up at the tiny entrance, fighting to keep his face and voice steady...in control. "Go away," he rasps out.

The demon steps closer, leaving bloody footprints sizzling softly in the background. Tilting his head, a grin flashes across the hollow face, pitch black pupils blown wide with a faint green halo. "Alistair says I'm not supposed to talk to you, says you were one of his failed experiments."

Rage fills the Swede, "You can tell that forked tongue Devil to drown in Holy Water. He left me when I needed him the most."

The young demon chuckles, "Not from what I hear, he said you ran off like a chicken, even had the feathers to prove it." Green eyes snaps his fingers and a table of knives and objects he recognizes and others he doesn't appear before him. "Now listen Swede, cause that's what you sound like, you're going to cry pretty for me okay. You're going to scream so loud and beautiful and you're going to break and play nice for us big boys."

Gunderson swallows hard. He remembers his classes, what Alistair taught him, knows where this is going. Oddly enough, he's not scared anymore. "Why should I?"

Again that smile that could have charmed anyone if not for the quiet malice flashes once more. "My anniversary is coming up and I need a present to make sure I don't end up back on the Rack. You're the best I got."

Nodding, Thor snorts softly in agreement. He can spot the dependency, the sick twisted relationship that once existed between him and Alistair tying and twisting around this younger demon. Something long forgotten tickles at the back of his mind.

Whispering, Thor lets pity drip from his parched mouth. "He'll leave you. He left me when someone greater came along, someone with more potential." He sneers at the thought of Bohannon for a moment before swallowing his wounded pride and pressing onwards, "He'll leave you hanging, abandoned out in the cold night, humiliated and beaten till you have no control over your life, where everything is left to Fate."

The younger man turns and glares at him. But it's not with rage. There's a fear blossoming, some fear that's been ingrained in the boy long before he came to Hell. "No he won't," comes out a childlike determination, "Not after I give you to him. Alistair won't ever leave me, even if I have to torture him myself."

Gunderson can't help but throw back his head, a dead laugh echoing in the caverns of the caves of Isolation. It's cut too short when a razor slices deep and long as Dean begins his work on his masterpiece.

And a masterpiece it turns out to be Alistair croons, as he rains down praise and sadistic love onto Dean who looks up with tormented joy, the conflict burning away his humanity. The white-eyed demon whispers against ruby lips and rotting skin how Dean will never lose his freedom again, that he's in control of his fate...that he will never be left alone again.

Dean should have remembered that demons lie.


End file.
